


The Dark Valley

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Nekropolis Archives
Genre: Casefic - sorta, Dark World, Demons, Fantasy, Gen, Matt Richter - Freeform, Nekropolis Archives, Pre-Slash, Slash Goggles, Zombies, absurdity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Sherlock woke up this morning, they were not expecting to follow a demon kidnapper into an alternate dimension, but hey, weirder things have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Valley

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover with the Nekropolis Archives by Tim Waggoner. Those books are a series of noir-style fantasy mysteries with a zombie PI, they take place in the world of Nekropolis, which is where all the demons, vampires (Bloodborn), were-creatures (Lykes), witches (Arcane), and other supernatural beings of Earth moved to when the humans got too violent. Nearly all the characters in this story are taken directly from the pages of the actual book. Yes, that includes Bennie. The similarities were too hilarious to overlook, and they were sort of the jumping-off point for this entire crossover. XD The shoes were my addition though, I couldn’t resist.
> 
> The story is written from the zombie PI Matt Richter’s perspective. Whenever possible I have done my best to fill in the blanks for anyone who has not read these books, so it can be read as a standalone. If you have any questions though, please don’t hesitate to ask.
> 
> This is technically a casefic, but the case itself (much like the cases in the Nekropolis books) are almost secondary to the environment itself.
> 
> The title was taken from a line in The Greek Interpreter where Watson refers to death as “that dark valley in which all paths meet.” I thought it suited.
> 
> Huge huge thanks to Lacuna and Mars for beating this into some semblance of submission. Any errors or unclear bits are entirely my fault, they did what they could.

Of all the things I’m expecting to walk into Skelly’s today, a new pair of humans wouldn’t have made the top thousand. Skelly’s is one of Nekropolis’ best-known dive bars, full of lykes, witches, vamps, and other assorted Darkfolk. The owner and bartender has the dubious distinction of being a bare, bleached skull on an otherwise normal-looking body, hence the place’s name. He’s a good guy, once you can get past the empty sockets staring at you. Usually I just stare right back.

Right now the only staring I’m doing is at the two men who’ve marched up to the bar. Or, rather, one had strut like a peacock and the other had followed him, looking a bit like a lost puppy. They’re standing at the bar now, nursing a beer and what I can only hope is a glass of water or a vodka or something.

I saunter up close to them, leaning on the bar. They’re clearly arguing about something, so I’m just going to keep my wobbly jaw shut, waiting for an appropriate moment to butt in (if there ever is such a thing). They’re arguing, quite loudly. Brits, then, going by the accent. I was never the best at identifying accents even when I was on Earth and it’s only gotten more difficult now, so I can’t tell exactly from where. Definitely more cultured than that damned ghost up in the Boneyard, the lonely girl with the whiny voice and the horn-rimmed glasses who leaves trails of water everywhere.

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on jumping into a SUSPICIOUSLY SHINY PATCH OF AIR, Sherlock, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.” The shorter man with the fair hair is shouting now, slamming his glass down on the table. He’s got his back turned, like he’s trying to ignore the bartender’s skeleton head, the strange lizard-like man sitting next to me, and, well, probably me. I know I don’t smell too fantastic right now. I feel a pang of sympathy for the guy, remembering how completely insane everything felt when I first got here.

The other man - Sherlock, was it? Is that even a name? - could potentially mingle with the Darkfolk. Strangely ethereal, skin so pale it’s nearly transparent (though nothing compared to Glassine, the Transparent Woman), and his eyes seem to be constantly changing colour. Not a kaleidoscope like a demon’s; just as though he’s not sure if he wants them to be grey, green, or blue. He’s composed nearly entirely of sharp angles, and where he doesn’t have sharp angles he’s all incongruously soft curves. Even when I had blood flowing through me, I wasn’t the type to check out a man’s ass, but I couldn’t help noticing his. It looks like he’s borrowed it from someone else. Maybe he has, I don’t know. It certainly wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing I’d seen lately.

“So, you guys come here often?”

Their heads spin around, so in sync it looks like they’ve been practising. I stick my hand out, hoping it’s firmly attached today. Nothing like losing a limb to make an impression.

“Matt Richter. PI. Zombie. Mind if I ask who you are? I don’t recognise you guys.”

The tall one with the dark hair sizes me up. “I should hope you’re not investigating why we’re here. That wasn’t exactly subtle.”

The fair one nudges him in the ribs before reaching out and shaking my hand. He’s got a good grip. Firm, but not threatening. Trustworthy. I like him already. Jury’s still out on the other one.

“I’m John Watson and that is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a consulting detective and I assist him. Um. Human. We’re a bit lost.”

Sherlock (so that was his name after all) snorts disdainfully. “We are not _lost._ We’re just not where we’re supposed to be.”

“What, so when you woke up this morning you didn’t decide to throw yourselves into a city in an alternate universe filled with the things humans tell their children don’t live under the bed?”

Sherlock studies me for a moment, and I feel oddly like a bug pinned to a wall.

“You used to be a cop. You got here from earth two - no, three years ago. You were human when you got here, but that didn’t last long. You’ve lost someone very important to you. A partner maybe? This place has no world for a proper police force, but you can’t bear the idea of not helping people, of not upholding what you think is right, so you’ve become a private detective. You’ve got someone at home who cares about you, but they’re out of town right now. You take pride in your appearance, as much as a zombie can, but your clothes - and your skin for that matter - are not as fresh as they could be. You’ve gotten lax.”

My jaw drops. Not all the way off, thankfully. Wouldn’t be the best way to make a first impression.

The fair-haired one smiles at me. “Sorry. You get used to it, but yeah, he does this with everyone.”

I’m not sure if that’s comforting or horrifying, but at least I don’t feel singled out anymore.

“How did you guys even get here in the first place?” I’m debating asking how they’re still alive, but I keep that bit to myself.

John stares at Sherlock, like he’s waiting for him to talk. Sherlock, however, is busy staring at everything in the bar, so John just chuckles and turns back to me.

“Well, as I mentioned, he’s a consulting detective, and I work with him. We were looking into a case. A group of kids went missing from a preschool a few days ago, all gone without a trace. We’d managed to track down one of the people apparently involved, but we had no idea what they wanted from the kids. We got him cornered at the end of an alley, and figured we were set, but suddenly the air started shimmering. The guy jumped into the air and vanished.

“I just wanted to get out of there, but _someone_ here” he nods in Sherlock’s direction “just threw himself into the patch of air without thinking. I wasn’t going to let him run off on his own again, so I followed him through. We ended up in a sort of forested area, but right near the big black road that seems to run through everything. We followed it until we got to a bridge, and then found our way here. Sherlock’s been itching to keep looking for the guy, but I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m bloody fucking confused.”

I turn to Skelly and gesture for a round of refills, on me. He slides them down the bar and I offer them to my new friends.

“I gotta say, you two are handling it way better than most of the humans we get here. I don’t blame you for being confused - when I first landed in Nekropolis I was totally lost. Sounds like you ended up in the Wyldwood, and if you don’t mind me saying, you’re incredibly lucky you didn’t end up as someone’s snack. That’s the Lyke quarter. Er, lycanthropes. Werewolves.”

Sherlock’s interest is finally piqued enough to join our conversation. “Lyke quarter? The city is divided by race? Isn’t that rather backwards-thinking?”

“The city’s laid out so that each Darklord has a domain, a section for their people. They’re all technically subdomains, under the supreme control of Lord Dis. He lives in the middle of the city, in the Spire, but he tends to be pretty remote.They’re not officially segregated - look at me. As an undead, I’m technically under Lord Edrigu’s domain and should be in the Boneyard, but most of the shit that goes down in this city happens here, in the Sprawl. But you’ve gotta remember that there are a lot of serious predator-prey dynamics here, so it’s generally easier to have safe spaces for everyone.”

John’s looking a bit confused by all this. “Lyke?”

Before I’ve got time to explain, Sherlock’s interrupting. “Like werewolves. Short for lycanthrope, I assume, judging by the terrain. Lots of wild open spaces, perfect for animalistic hunting.”

I shake my head. Not only is he entirely undisturbed by everything, he’s filling in the blanks with alarming acuity. John catches my eye again and smiles weakly.

Sherlock’s drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. “I’m sure you can continue to fill us in on the geography and politics of this lovely little metropolis while we’re working. The longer we wait, the more of a risk there is that we will not find the children alive.”

“Sherlock!”

He turns to stare at John. “What? It’s not as if their parents are here, nobody’s going to panic when I point out that there’s a chance they may already be dead.” Poor John. I get the impression he’s doing his best to be Sherlock’s moral compass, but it seems like a full-time job.

“I think our first priority is figuring out why them - why bother stealing children from Earth, it seems like a significant hassle? I assume you breed here? There are children of different species here in Nekropolis?”

“Yes, we breed.” Some of us, anyway. I’d gotten used to the idea that I was never going to have a family when I got divorced back on earth, but starting over, starting my new life with Devona… Sometimes I found myself wishing that there was a way for a zombie and a sterile half-vampire to procreate. No use dwelling on that right now.

“If we need info, I know exactly where to go.” I stand up, nodding at Skelly and tossing a few darkgems on the counter. “Follow me.”

* * *

We manage to stick to the black road the two of them found when the arrived here. The Obsidian Way is a slick ribbon that slices through each sector of Nekropolis, connecting them with bridges. The bridges don’t span water though, they span a river of green flame. As we’re approaching the bridge between the Sprawl and Gothtown, Sherlock leans over the railing. I’m about to shuffle up and pull him away but John beats me to it.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock. Please, stop dangling yourself precariously over everything. For me?” His face is pale and his voice wavers, I wonder if there’s some history there.

“He’s right, you know.” They both turn to look at me - it’s like they’d forgotten I was here. “That’s the Phlegethon. It’ll burn away your soul and wipe your memory, if you don’t get eaten by the Lesk first.”

“Lesk?” John asks.

“They’re giant snakes with voracious appetites. The only thing that’s ever survived in there.”

Finally, they both shudder. It’s refreshing to see them suitably scared of something. After that, they make it a point of sticking to the middle of the bridge. I stand back a bit, watching them cross over into the foggy, overly ornate, pseudo-historical mess that is Gothtown.

From a distance, the two of them could pass for a Bloodborn and his Shadow. Sherlock’s so willowy and angular, the collar of that goofy coat he’s got on turned up like some sort of cloak. And the way John follows him, so close but never quite keeping up. He’s so vital, so full of life, but hopefully any other vamps we come across will assume he’s spoken for already. My smell should help keep them far enough from us to encourage the illusion.

They’ve stopped, looking around to get their bearings, and it gives me a chance to catch up to them. “John, you just stick close to tall, dark, and Byronic over there, and if nobody looks at us too closely, we should be left alone. It’s not uncommon for the Bloodborn to keep humans as…”

  
John squints, trying to analyse my twitchy, drooping facial expression. “Pets?”

I shrug. “Something like that.”

He shrugs back at me, looking over at Sherlock, who happens to be staring intently at one of those awful lamp posts that resembles a giant spine. “I think I can handle that. Folks back home seem to get the same impression, honestly.” He grins sheepishly and thrusts his hands into his jacket pockets. What is it with these two, anyway?

We come to a stop in front of an unassuming wood-frame house nestled between two imposing stone mansions. Sherlock smirks at me and I’m nearly expecting some sort of argument, but any detective worth his salt knows not to judge sources based on appearances, and it seems like he’s familiar with the concept.

I pause, my hand on the door. I’m debating just sending them in without warning, but I figure I’ll be nice for once.

“Before we go in, I should warn you guys, there’s going to be a moment of adjustment. It may not look like much from here, but it’s bigger on the inside.”

John chuckles. Does anything surprise these two? “Like the TARDIS.”

The what? Some British thing maybe? I look to Sherlock for some sort of clarification, but he just rolls his eyes.

“Ignore him. He’s got terrible taste in television.”

“Oh, shut it, you. You’re as addicted as I am.” They grin at each other, it’s kind of cute but kind of nauseating. Yep. Old married couple. Definitely.

I push the door open, letting them follow behind me.

Surrounded by all these books, Sherlock looks happier and younger than I’ve seen him at all, like he’s thrilled by the prospect of new knowledge. He’s running up and down the aisles, stroking the spines of the books almost reverently. Every so often he pulls one out and flips through it. I want to say he’s doing it at random, but I get the impression nothing he ever does is at random. John’s following him, looking a bit lost.

Me? I’m perfectly content to just stay here, what I’m looking for will come up to us eventually. It’s not long before I hear it, the quiet whisper of old paper and light footsteps.

Waldemar is old. Like, _really_ old. Even for a Bloodborn. He’s almost insubstantial, like a strong wind would knock him over. He stops in front of me, and Sherlock and John come running back from wherever they were. They’re giggling. I don’t even want to know.

After a very brief introduction, Sherlock’s on Waldemar. Doing that thing again. It’s sort of fascinating to watch, when you’re not the victim.

“You don’t smell of blood, not like the other Bloodborn we’ve happened across. Your cuffs and collar are clean, your lips are pale, but you look relatively well-fed. Your skin’s almost papery. Would I be correct in assuming you’ve found an alternative form of sustenance? Something you want from one of us.”

Waldemar nods, studying Sherlock’s face sharply. “You’re far more astute than most of the folks I deal with, yet you’re still human. Fascinating. I want one of yours.”

“One of my what?”

“Memories. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes sparkling. I think he’s excited by the prospect of a new experience. He probably would have agreed to it even if it was going to hurt. Waldemar reaches into Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock’s face goes blank. Next to me, John makes as if to jump forward, to his defence, but my hand on his arm is enough to still him.

“Don’t worry, he wasn’t lying. It’s strange, but not painful. I never feel it when he does it, then again I never feel anything. But he’s done it to my girlfriend, and she assured me it’s not bad.”

He rummages around for a bit and looks a bit perplexed, but eventually Waldemar pulls a sheet of parchment out. Holding it to his face as if to inhale the aroma, he makes a strange face. He looks down at the paper, scowling.

“It’s blank. How did you trick me?”

Sherlock looks nearly sad for a moment, and John cringes like he knows what’s coming. I’ve never seen this happen.

“It’s not a trick. Try again.”

Irritated, Waldemar pulls out another, the look on his face making it quite clear how frustrated he is by the fact that it’s blank. Sherlock’s jaw is set.

“Gone. Deleted. I get rid of things I have no use for, make room for new things.”

“But… memories?” Waldemar looks shocked, like he can’t imagine anyone willingly giving up memories. “They’re all important.”

“Some of mine were terrible. I was better off using that space for more vital things.” His eyes glitter, hard and slightly aggressive. Waldemar sighs and nods.

“I’m not going to try again. I can’t bear the idea of taking the ones you’ve decided to keep.” His gaze shifts from Sherlock to John, who stares back almost defiantly. “They’re precious things, sir.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t deleted anything in a couple of years now.” He and John share a gaze so intimate I feel a bit rude for having seen it, but neither of them seem to care. Waldemar’s staring too, but he looks away.

Waldemar snaps his fingers, and a book materialises on the shelf next to us. He flips through it, muttering softly to himself. Sherlock glances over the pages too, but there’s no way even he knows what it says. I have no idea what language it’s written in, or even what alphabet.

“Aha, here we go.” He taps the page with one long, withered finger. “It says here that human children can be used to power certain transportation spells, incredibly potent ones.”

“But aren’t there already portals available to the citizens of this city? I assume there are unmonitored or illegal ones, like the one we came in through.” Damn that guy for asking what I’m thinking before I realise I’m thinking it.

Waldemar nods, pensive. “Children possess a much stronger raw power than older beings. They just have no idea how to harness it. They may be trying to open a particularly large gate. Or…” He trails off, and the look on his face makes it clear he’s not going to elaborate.

Probably for the best too. John’s wavering slightly, like he’s asleep on his feet. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be surrounded by humans who need to sleep. Sherlock still seems wide awake, but I have no idea how long they’ve been up.

 

I’m probably going to regret this later, but what the heck. Something about the two of them is entertaining to me, and if we’re going to be working together, it’ll be easier for me to keep an eye on them if they’re with me 24-7. Also, it might fill the void in my sad little apartment while Devona’s back on Earth.

“Listen, guys. As Sherlock so astutely guessed earlier, my girlfriend’s out of town.”

He snorts. “I never guess. I deduced.”

“Whatever. It’s not much, but I can offer you two a bed and a couch. Or just the bed?” I’m still not sure what their relationship is.

John butts in. “Both, both’d be good. Definitely. Thank you.”

He’s a bit quick to jump in with that, a little defensive, but I’m not going to say anything.

“I’d also like to help with the investigation. No offence, Sherlock, but you’re more than a little out of your league here.”

John cringes, like he’s anticipating some sort of massive blow-up. Maybe I should have chosen my words more carefully. But Sherlock just steeples his fingers and taps them against his lip.

“Yes, I expect I am. A tour guide of sorts wouldn’t go remiss.”

I can see poor John yawning out of the corner of my eye. “I know you guys have a lot to do, but it’s late, so why don’t we head back and crash for a couple of hours.”

I can tell Sherlock’s about to argue, but one sharp look from John shuts him up.

“Thanks, yeah, that’d be great.”

* * *

John’s curled up, sound asleep on my saggy, rotted couch. Sherlock’s sitting in the corner, staring at him. I catch his eye and he turns away, suddenly interested in some slime mould on the ceiling. Something in the way he was staring at John hits me - so fond, but so remote. I can’t help but think of Devona, my half-Bloodborn girlfriend. When we first met, we’d had to link minds briefly, and when we disconnected it was nearly painful, even to my undead self. I’d never felt so bereft. Dis, I miss her. I can’t wait for her to come back from Earth, where she’s exploring the human side of her heritage.

“You know,” I say. Sherlock looks up, meeting me with those weird eyes of his. “You two seem to lead a really interesting life. Well, for humans. I know this guy, I tell him stories and he sends them back to writers and agents in different times and places on earth. I bet you two have some prime stuff to share. You could make a lot of money that way.”

He curls his lip at me, disdainful as ever. “John already writes about our cases - rather sentimentally, I might add - on his blog.” He looks over, making sure John’s nodded off and can’t hear him, I guess. “He does a decent job. Brings in a fair number of customers. But really, I have no need for more money. Or more notoriety. But…” He pauses. “Thank you.” I get the impression that’s not something he says often.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?” He looks tired too, but he won’t admit it.

“I was like you once.”

“Human? Yes, I know.” He’s trying to sound bored and irritated, but it’s not quite working.

“No, you ass. Detached. Remote. Thought it was easier than getting attached to people. It was easier to acknowledge once I became a zombie. I thought it was normal. I couldn’t feel with my body, why should I be able to feel with my heart?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Humans don’t feel with their hearts either.”

God, he’s insufferable. “You know what I mean.” I look over at John, twitching fitfully in his sleep, and see Sherlock studying him too. “Open up to him, Sherlock. He cares about you, and it’s bloody obvious you care about him. Trust me on this. You’ll both be better off.”

He makes a strange disbelieving noise in the back of his throat and goes back to analysing the green blob on the ceiling that now appears to be waving at us, but the look in his eyes has softened slightly. Maybe it’s not my place to meddle, but I’ve grown fond of these twits in the time they’ve been hanging out here. They’re survivors, like me. I’m not going to push the issue though, so I just head into the bedroom and take advantage of the peace and quiet to relax a bit. Even if I don’t need sleep, my body regenerates better when I’m resting.

After John’s had his quick nap on the sofa - Sherlock didn’t bother, but I get the impression he doesn’t sleep much - they’re both alert and raring to go. Umbriel, the fixed dark sun over Nekropolis, results in it being pretty much dusk all the time here. There’s never any real way to know whether someone will be awake or not at any given hour, so I figure we may as well go pay a visit to the _House of Dark Delights_.

Thankfully it’s a short walk, I’m not sure I could handle babysitting these two for a huge traipse across the dirtier parts of Nekropolis. John’s on high alert, scouting around corners and treating everything as a potential threat, which, if I’m being honest with myself, is not a bad way to deal with being here. Sherlock, on the other hand, keeps running off to study things, and at one point I found him harvesting samples of some carnivorous moss.

Finally we get to our destination - a sprawling white clapboard manor house with green shutters that looks elegant and oddly out of place around here. We’re greeted at the door by the brothel’s burly bouncer.

“Hey Lyra, I’m looking for Bennie.” Lyra’s a sweet girl, even if she is trapped in the body of a wolfish male Lyke.

“They’re in the cage right now, but I’ll tell them you’re here. Shouldn’t be too much longer.” She smiles, all teeth, but still manages to be adorable. She escorts us to the lounge, where shockingly there’s an empty table. A waitress with green skin and feathery wings wrapped around her body comes up to us. I manage to intercept before she asks if John or Sherlock want anything.

“Nope, thanks. We’re just here to talk.” I turn to them. Sherlock looks bored, but John looks irritated. I’m sure he’s thirsty. “Trust me, guys. Do _not_ drink anything anyone offers you here. I’m not sure your physiologies could handle half these concoctions, and the other half would keep you distracted for hours. Lack of blood flow to the head, if you get my drift.”

“Oh, ta.” John nods, but still casts a forlorn glance at the elaborate round bar in the middle of the room.

We’ve only been waiting a few minutes when Bennie walks up to the table in an impeccably fitted tuxedo and sequinned oxfords, her curly ginger hair cropped short again today, falling loose around her prominent cheekbones. Her eyes crinkle happily when she sees me, and her eyes cast an appreciative glance over my new companions.

“Well well well, who do we have here?”

“Hey, Bennie. This is John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Humans. From London.”

“Looking for a bit of fun, are they?” Her voice is a low purr, and hell, even I’m tempted. And I’m _dead_.

“I suspect your definition of _fun_ varies greatly from mine.” That’d be Sherlock interrupting again, but thankfully Bennie’s in a good mood.

“Not your type, then, Sherlock?” She raises one eyebrow, eyeing John suggestively. “Your tastes run something more along those lines?”

Sherlock shuts his mouth with an audible click, and John chuckles.

“Congrats, Bennie. Not many people manage to shut him up right off the bat.” Sherlock scowls at John. Jesus, how long have these two been married?

Bennie stares across the crowded lounge, spots her target, and nods. Almost instantly, a young woman saunters up to our table, naked as the day she was born, and I can see John appreciating her pert little body. He’s going to be in for a surprise when he gets to her face, though. He blinks, shudders discreetly, and then gives it up and gapes openly. She winks, hands Bennie a glass of what I assume is her usual concoction, and heads off, but not before dragging her fingernails across poor John’s shoulder. Admirably though, he doesn’t pull away in disgust.

After she’s sauntered away, John turns to Bennie.

“Was that.. uh...” he gestures to his own face, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing things. “Her...” he bites his lip, and Sherlock smirks.

Bennie lets out a throaty laugh. “Her niggly bits? Her delicate flower? Her vagina? Yes, darling, it was. Huge hit with some of the customers. I have to say though, it’s a bloody nuisance when she’s on her monthlies.”

John, to his credit, simply nods, like he’s not sure what else to say. I keep expecting him to freak out, to find the one thing too odd for him to handle, but it looks as though living through a war and then living with Sherlock has made him tougher than he looks. Sherlock, however, looks positively intrigued.

“What of her nose and mouth then? Are they were her genitals should be? And her anus? Surely not so close to her eating orifice...”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to show you. For the right price.” Bennie smirks, and Sherlock suddenly loses interest. Laughing, she chugs the cocktail. I’m debating warning my two guests, but I’d rather see Sherlock lose his footing again. There’s a nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air, and suddenly sitting in Bennie’s place is a handsome young man with familiar ginger curls.

“This more your type, love?” His voice has dropped a couple of octaves, but the seductive purr is still there. Sherlock, to his credit, doesn’t look unsettled at all. John, however, is another story. He’s staring at Bennie with his jaw hanging open again, looking completely lost. He’s going to start attracting flies if he keeps that up.

“Fascinating. The drink you just consumed, a potion of some sort? Is it an illusion?” Sherlock inquires.

“You catch on quick.” Bennie smiles, holding his hand out for a shake. “Master Benedict, formerly Mistress Benedetta. And no, it’s not an illusion. I could show you, but again, it’ll cost you.”

John’s leaning in his chair, knuckles gripped firmly around the hand rests, but he’s still coping somehow. I feel bad for the guy, so I decide to get back to business. He’s had enough weirdness for the next little while.

“Okay, Bennie. Fun’s fun, but we’re here for a reason. Someone back on the surface has been kidnapping kids, we think they’re using them to power a portal. Have you had anyone go missing lately?”

Whoops. Wrong move. Suddenly he’s towering over me, face furious and red. I forget how tall he is like this, she’s much shorter and more unassuming the other way.

“Richter, how dare you imply we hire children in this establishment?! We have a few demons of small stature, and a couple of pixies, but they’re all older than you were when you died.” He puts a heavy emphasis on the word _died_ and I don’t have to figure out what the implication is. If I still had a heartbeat, I’m sure it would be pounding in my ears right about now.

Sherlock and John, smartly, have chosen to stay out of the argument, sinking into their chairs.

I bring my hands up, trying to placate Bennie.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I thought maybe some of your girls had kids, you know? Stuff like that?”

Only slightly mollified, he sits back down.

“Sorry, Richter. It’s a touchy issue in this industry, you know?”

I nod, gulping out of habit. My throat feels even drier than usual. “I really didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry.”

I can see John and Sherlock eyeing each other nervously in the periphery of my vision - maybe it’s time to get going. I nod at Bennie, urging him to continue. He gets the hint.

“But no, to answer your questions, none of my girls have mentioned anything. They’re all here, eager to work, no signs that anyone’s in trouble, but I’ll keep an ear out. Let you know if anything happens. But you know damned well as I do, fresh humans are always in demand here, I suspect they’re not bothering with youngsters from down here.”

Shit. First Waldemar, now Bennie confirming it. Nodding, I thank him and stand up, gesturing for John and Sherlock to follow.

“Although, now that I think about it, we had a couple of shifty demons in here a few weeks back, asking around about portals to other dimensions. If anything had enough innate natural power to open a gate to somewhere other than earth, it would be pure young humans.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, shaking Bennie’s hand firmly again. “Thank you. Sir?” Bennie winks. “Sir’s fine for now.” Sherlock nods, continuing. “You’ve been very helpful, we appreciate your time.”

After the exchange with Bennie, he looks to John, and I can’t help but think of a puppy who’s peed on the newspaper instead of the antique oriental rug. He’s so eager for approval, but only John’s. John grins and nods at him as he’s standing. I get the impression that Sherlock forgets to thank people, and this has been a point of contention between the two of them before. It’s kinda sweet, really.

We collect ourselves - in my case literally; the fingers on my left hand are starting to come loose - and head off. I admit I’m at a bit of a loss, but there’s a lot to be said for good old legwork. If we just roam the streets for a bit, hopefully something will come to light.

* * *

Thankfully my instinct proves useful. We’ve only been combing the area around Bennie’s for about twenty minutes when Sherlock lets out a sharp exclamation and bends down, only to pop back up like a whack-a-mole with a shit-eating grin on its face.

“Richter, I assume human children are a rarity here, right?”

“Yeah, humans tend to end up here when they’re adults, and they don’t usually last long enough to breed with other humans.”

“Then I would also assume that typical children’s toys are hard to come by?”

I nod, assuming he’s going somewhere with this. He holds his hand out to me, cupping a Lego block. A fucking Lego block. Maybe an inch by half an inch square. How he saw it in the dim light of Umbriel, I have no idea, but I’m not going to question it. A clue’s a clue.

“They must have come through here, one of them probably dropped it.” John pipes in, peering over Sherlock’s arm. “If we comb the area, we might find more and figure out which direction they were taken in.

We split up and start combing the area, looking for anything else out of the ordinary.

“Sherlock, look.” John shouts and we both look over at him. He’s staring at a point off in the distance, something I can’t quite make out. My eyes were never fantastic to begin with, and unlike the more glamorous creatures of myth and legend, zombies aren’t known for gaining super-powers after they die. Sherlock obviously sees it though, his face lights up and he darts off, that ridiculous coat flapping behind him. John shrugs briefly at me before following him.

They come back, triumphantly holding up another toy - a stuffed elephant with a missing ear this time.

“It was wedged into that railing there, quite deliberately.” They’re sharing another one of those painfully intense looks. “Hansel and Gretel?” Sherlock asks, and it’s strange to hear him sounding unsure of himself. John nods, and the cast of their faces change.

“What, did I miss something?” Seriously. Did I? How is it that I’ve gone from feeling like an invaluable resource to a tour guide to a third wheel in a single night?

John puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, in what I can only assume is a comforting gesture. “Not the first time we’ve come across a reference to that particular fairy tale. I’m sure they’re unrelated, though.” Sherlock just nods, his jaw resolutely set.

“I do think they’re leaving a trail. Children are much smarter and more perceptive than people give them credit for. They know someone will come look for them.” Sherlock says, and I find myself nodding along with John. The guy makes sense.

A quick jaunt towards the far point of the Sprawl turns up several more toys, all obviously deliberately placed. Sherlock was right. We’re following the trail when John stops abruptly.

“There’s a light down there. Something really bright. We should be on alert.”

There’s a strange glow emanating from the horizon in the direction he’s pointing. I don’t even know how to describe it, it’s strange, purple-black-white all at the same time, like the absence of light but painfully bright around the edges. In all my time here, I’ve never seen anything like it.

“No idea what that is, guys. It’s even alien to me, which leads me to assume it’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

That’s apparently all the confirmation they need, because they rush forward, Sherlock in the lead and John taking up the rear. There’s not much I can do besides follow them, so I do, shambling and shuffling at an awkward pace. I really need to get my wilting ass to Papa Chatha’s for a top-up of the spells that keep me going.

We get to the peak of a rocky outcrop, one of the few remaining wild and undeveloped places in The Sprawl. The light’s coming from the pit below. In some sort of unspoken agreement, the three of us peer down in unison. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The kids are all there, all twelve of them. They’re apparently unconscious, floating calmly in mid-air. They’re weaving and bobbing softly, their hair floating around their heads like little sunbursts. It’s almost like they’re underwater. They’re chained to each other, shackled around their waists, and each anchored to the ground with another chain. Two particularly hideous demons are lying in a drunken heap off to one side, apparently so over-confident in their plan that they’ve decided to celebrate ahead of schedule.

There’s an indignant, frustrated groan from one side of me, I assume from John. The noise from Sherlock is more celebratory, until John elbows him in the ribs.

Sherlock turns to me. “Is there anything remotely resembling a police force in this city?”

I’m two steps ahead of him, for once. I pull a small whistle out of my pocket. It was a gift from Kekhet, who runs Tenebrus, Nekropolis’ prison. I blow into it, two sharp blasts that I can’t hear but will apparently summon a Sentinel. Sentinels are huge armored golems that run patrol around here, taking criminals back to Tenebrus.

Within minutes it’s lumbering up over the ridge to join us. I point down towards the two sleeping demons and let the damned thing do its job. There’s not much of a justice system around here, but for once I don’t mind the Sentinel’s singleminded commitment to the duties it was created for. These scumbags were preying on young, innocent humans.

Without the demons to keep the spell going, whatever’s holding the kids in the air fizzles out and they fall to the ground. Luckily, they weren’t that high to begin with and they’re only starting to come to.

As soon as the threat is neutralised, John’s scampering down the side of the outcrop, Sherlock hopping along behind him like some sort of deranged mountain goat. The kids are still very woozy, some of them still asleep but hopefully in a more peaceful way.

I manage to get down the ridge while the two of them are in mid-conversation.

“Why can’t we just take one or two at a time?”

“We can’t just leave them here, Sherlock. They’re going to wake up, and they’re going to be incredibly scared.”

One of the kids starts ambling towards John, and by the looks of his lower lip we’re in for a major meltdown, but the good doctor pulls the stuffed elephant out from his jacket and hands it to the boy, who sits down, placated.

Sherlock is pacing madly around the clump of kids, ruffling his hair and staring at them as if they’re going to offer up some kind of a solution to this problem.

Leave it to this crazy city to sort things out for me. Off in the distance, I hear the familiar roar and backfire of a specific engine. I’m expecting Lazlo and his banged-up but otherwise unassuming-looking yellow cab. Lazlo’s a cabbie who also happens to be a demon that looks vaguely like the wrong end of a mandrill. I’ve been told he also smells like the wrong end of a mandrill, and more than once I’ve been thankful that my sense of smell died when the rest of me did.

His cab is usually a strange hybrid of car and sentient being, and I’ve tried very hard not to ponder their relationship too much. Today though, it’s a school bus. He always manages to show up wherever I need him most, without me calling him - I have no idea how. I guess the cab also manages to be whatever I need it to be.

“Fascinating…” Sherlock’s murmuring to himself, and it’s a second before I notice he’s stroking the hood of the bus.

“Sherlock, don’t touch it!” He shoots me a glare that would sour new milk, but I guess he’s gotten used to John telling him off for his own good, because he removes his hand anyway. Good thing too, because just as he’s pulling away the car-bus-creature-thing opens up, a big slimy tongue slipping out from under her hood. Grumpy, she snaps shut, sharp metal teeth grinding together.

Lazlo leans out the driver’s-side window. “You guys need some finicky cargo moved?” He waggles his eyebrows at me. At least, I think they’re his eyebrows.

“You’re a lifesaver, buddy. I’d like to get them to Varvara’s eventually, but for the time being I think the park near the Grotesquerie would be best. Just don’t go too far.”

“For you, Matt? Anything. I even made sure the kiddie seats had seatbelts, and you know how insulting I find seatbelts.”

If I could breathe, I’d sigh with relief right about now. Lazlo’s a great guy, but his driving leaves much to be desired.

We manage to herd the gaggle of confused, sleepy kids into the bus. Somehow one of them has ended up in John’s lap, but he’s smiling fondly and ruffling the kid’s hair, so I don’t think he minds too much.

Thanks in no small part to Lazlo’s manic driving, we get them to the park within a few minutes. Thankfully most of them are still partially sedated, so the shock of being in such a strange place without their parents hasn’t totally set in yet, but I’m willing to bet we’re going to have a screaming mass on our hands in the very near future. The quicker John and Sherlock can get these kids back home, the better. One little girl is whimpering, but she’s still quiet enough that the others haven’t picked up on it.

“I think we should go talk to the queen of the Sprawl. Her name’s Varvara, and she’s the most indulgent of the Darklords. She’s got a portal in her quarters she might let us use.”

John looks at me. “What are we going to do with them in the meantime?”

“Can’t we just tie them together around the middles and bring them with us? A bit like a pack of dogs?” Sherlock stares intently at the group of kids.

“Sherlock, we can’t take a bunch of toddlers to meet a…” John stops and scrunches his face up, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to say. “A demon queen. And we can’t tie them up. Not again, not after what they’ve been through.”

“Would you like to stay with them back at the apartment? That one there seems to be quite fond of you.” He points to a chubby little boy who is currently chewing on one of John’s shoelaces, and I snort out a laugh. I can feel one of my nostrils detaching slightly and curb the snickering.

John looks imploringly at me. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Some kind of… demon babysitting service?”

Man, he’s really trying to get me to laugh my nose off right now - literally. “You’re joking, right? Although…” He’s given me an idea. Shuddering, I pull my handvox out of my pocket. Handvoxes are the Nekropolis answer to cellphones, but instead of being pure tech like back on earth, they’re these hideous amalgamations of technology and flesh. They were developed by Dr. Frankenstein’s creature, or Victor Baron as he prefers to be called nowadays. They’re slimy and nauseating, with a human-looking mouth and ear attached. You speak into the vox’s ear, and the mouth speaks into yours. More than once, I’ve caught mine trying to steal a bit of my earlobe as a midnight snack.

I sigh and open it up. “Call Scorch, please.” The bloody thing blows me a raspberry before assenting. Have I mentioned how much I hate it?

“Yullo?” Hearing a perky, disembodied young woman’s voice coming from the vox is even more disconcerting than usual.

“Hey, Scorch. It’s Matt. Listen… are you busy?”

“Oh! Does Devona have a job for us?”

“No, she’s back on earth for a bit, doing some research into the human side of her family history. I need a babysitter.”

The shriek that comes out of the other end of the vox is inhuman - literally. Scorch is an eight-foot tall fire elemental demon. Red skin, horns, little pointy tail - the works. However, she usually chooses to disguise herself as a spunky little human blonde with a predilection for rainbow clothing, plastic beads, and pigtails.

“OH MY DIS MATT DID YOU AND DEVONA HAVE A BABY AND NOT TELL ME?!”

“Whoa there, kiddo. I just told you, Devona’s on earth and I’m still a zombie with non-functioning junk. It’s…” I sigh. “It’s complicated. I’ve got a horde of human toddlers here who need a bubbly, brightly-coloured distraction while I go chat with Varvara. Are you up for it?”

“Am I ever! I’ll be right there!”

Before I even have time to explain to John and Sherlock, she’s standing in front of us. I have no idea how she materialises out of nowhere sometimes, but it’s a handy skill so I’m not going to complain.

Sherlock’s doing that thing again, staring at her with his laser eyes. John’s discreetly trying to check out her figure, and likely wondering how old she is. I wonder if I should tell him. Seems like maybe I was wrong about him and Sherlock after all.

“Guys, this is Scorch. She’s gonna keep an eye on the anklebiters.”

“Demon, I presume?” That deep voice and accent of his do the trick, and she’s melting in front of him.

“How did you know?”

“Your eyes. You can masquerade as a human, but I’ve noticed all the demons around here have the same kind of eyes.”

“Yes yes, Sherlock, lovely. Now quit showing off.” John’s snappish all of a sudden, but he’s staring at Sherlock again, not Scorch. Man, does John just flirt with _everyone_?

We gather up all the kids, most of whom are starting to wake up, sniffling and whimpering and clinging to each other, and guide them to her. John squats down, getting on eye level - after rescuing his shoelace.

“Okay, kids, this is auntie Scorch. She’s going to keep you all company for a bit, try to be nice to her.” I know I’ve made the right call when the wibbly one from earlier comes up to Scorch and holds a hand out, and the demoness drops one of her brightly-coloured bracelets into the kid’s palm. They’re in good hands.

I turn to John and Sherlock. “Ok, guys, come on. We’ve got a queen to talk to.”

* * *

 

We stalk through the lobby of Demon’s Roost, without earning so much as a second glance from most of the creatures lurking around in there. The guard in front of Varvara’s personal elevator is so used to me by now he doesn’t even bother giving me grief. I see him eyeing John and Sherlock in a way that makes me think he hasn’t had his afternoon snack, and I snap at him.

“They’re with me, leave them alone, would you?”

“Oh, fine.” Nothing quite like a pouty ten foot tall blue demon to brighten your night.

We pile into the elevator, where we’re treated to the Muzak version of _Stairway to Heaven._ Seems like Varvara’s in a good mood, and she knows I’m coming. It’s better than last time I came up here. She was cranky, and the elevator was playing the Barber of Seville. I turn to John and Sherlock, who are studying the elevator ceiling in detail.

“Okay, so, Varvara’s usually pretty cool, but you might want to let me do the talking. And I should warn you, she looks a bit like Jessica Rabbit.”

“Who?” Sherlock looks entirely clueless. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look this way, and it’s a bit jarring. He’s fine with monster-powered taxi cabs, hyperactive teenage demons, and undead rat-men, but one of Earth’s most famous cartoon babes confuses him? I look at John, who shrugs and winks.

“Okay, well. She’s very attractive, if you’re into that sort of thing. But don’t trust her. She is a demon.”

The elevator comes to a smooth stop and the doors open with a ping. We step into her quarters, which resemble a tacky boudoir from the cover of a Harlequin novel. Ruched satin and ruffles everywhere.

“Oh, Richter! You brought me a present?” Varvara claps and grins slowly, perfectly lacquered red lips parting to reveal perfectly pointed teeth. “A not-so-matched set. I love it!”

“Down, Varvara!” The demon queen does so love to play with her food. Thankfully she finds me amusing when I stand up to her. “We’re here for help, and I don’t think they have plans to stick around.”

John’s eyeing her up and down, and man is there a lot to eye. Varvara’s typical disguise looks human, for the most part, but she’s built like most men’s dreams. Curvy in all the right places, tiny in others, with billowing red hair that falls to her waist. Her eyes are just a bit too large for her face, but instead of looking out of place she just always looks slightly lost, so you can’t help but want to take her hand and show her around. It’s all a clever ruse, but one that John appears to have unfortunately fallen for.

“I think I might be coerced into sticking around for a bit.” He smiles, and the look on Sherlock’s face is so sharp that it could cut glass.

“John, for the love of God, we’ve got better things to do.”

Intrigued, the demon queen sizes Sherlock up.

“Am I not to your tastes then, gorgeous?” She sidles up, bringing one hand to his cheek, stroking it gently. “Maybe this is more to your liking?”

In a flash, Varvara looks like a steady, solid, rather unassuming man. A short man with blue-grey eyes, sandy dishwater hair, and a rather hideous sweater. The image only lasts a second before she’s back to her bombshell self, but we all saw it. Sherlock’s scowling and John’s the colour of an over-ripe tomato.

I cough, trying to get everyone’s attention. In my dry, decomposing throat, the noise sounds more like the world’s tiniest cat bringing up the world’s tiniest hairball, but it does the trick.

“Seriously though.”

I lay the situation out for her - we’ve got the demons in question in custody, but we still need to find a way to get the kids home, with as little drama as possible. I ask if she’d be willing to let us use the large mirror in the corner, which I know is her own personal portal back to earth. The Darklords can set their portals to anywhere they want, so getting the munchkins back to London shouldn’t be a problem.

“Of course, Matt, anything for you. Even if I can’t keep them, the present was a welcome distraction.” She puts on a fake pout, pursing those red lips in a way that John seems to find very interesting. “But we can’t have them running home to Mommy and Daddy and telling them all about Nekropolis, can we? I’ll have to mind-wipe them.”

“No!” John shouts. “Don’t touch them.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second. “Wouldn’t it be kinder? Removing the trauma of all this?” The guy’s got a point.

“Sherlock, when have you ever cared about what was kinder?” John’s mouth is set, but his eyes are softening up. He’s totally smitten.

“You’ve taught me that children have… different needs.”

John turns to Varvara, consideration on his face. “Could you do that? Don’t wipe them completely, just alter their memories of their time here?”

“Oh, honey. I’m not a monster!” Varvara spreads her hands expansively. “Wait. I suppose I am. But not a _baaaaad_ one.” I snort, and she shoots me a _shut up Richter_ glare. I shut up _._ “That’s what I was planning to do. Just implant some memories of something that would explain their absence but doesn’t seem too horrific.”

Sherlock looks like he’s thinking again. Dis help us all.

“Do children still go on field trips?” This is not quite what I was expecting him to ask, so I keep my mouth shut and let him run with it.

John grins. “Yes, you git. Of course they do.”

“Could they perhaps have gotten lost in a relatively harmless but particularly strange, adventurous forest during some trip?”

There’s that look on John’s face again - the soft squishy happy look. “You know, for a sociopathic robot, you sure do seem to care an awful lot.” He smirks, but a quick glare from Sherlock shuts him up. They have to be sleeping together, I swear.

“But…” I pipe up. “Won’t that story fall apart quickly when the school is contacted? When there’s no missing guardian, no missing schoolbus?”

“I can get Mycroft to abandon a bus a bit outside the city, fake some paperwork. Imply to the school that it’s in their best interests to let this lapse in security be hidden. Let him sort out the details.” He waves his hand dismissively.

What the hell is a Mycroft? Before I even have time to ask, John turns to me. “His brother. Just… don’t ask. It’s easier that way.”

Varvara smiles and nods. “Just bring all the little darlings up here and I’ll take good care of them. They’ll just remember bits and pieces of a grand adventure! Toy soldiers! Pirates! Kids like pirates, don’t they?” She keeps muttering as we creep back towards the elevator.

When we get back to the park, Scorch seems to have gotten all the kids rounded up and calmed down. They’re singing some sort of a song and playing one of those weird erratic clapping games that only seem to make sense to little kids. They’re also each wearing one of her plastic beaded bracelets. I knew I could trust her.

She stands up, and the munchkins follow suit.

“Okay, guys! We’re gonna go on another little trip! It’s going to be really fun. Everyone grab someone’s hand, buddy up, and get back on the noisy bus!”

Lazlo’s still idling by the park, I hadn’t even noticed. They all pile in, and we’ve barely had time to buckle them up before we’re bombing down the road. It’s a short trip to Demon’s Roost, and we’ve arrived before anyone’s even gotten whiny.

The lobby is shockingly empty. I suspect Varvara arranged it to traumatise them less. Sometimes she amazes me. Even the blue dude at the elevator is gone.

When we get upstairs, I can tell both John and Sherlock are as surprised as I am. She still looks like the Varvara I know, but somehow softened around the edges. Her hair isn’t quite as red, her curves aren’t quite as voluptuous. More human, I guess. Like she’s actually making an effort not to scare the little ones. Even her quarters are more sedate. We’re still in her bedroom, but now it could just as easily be a room at a slightly upscale Hilton or something. Blandly welcoming. I smile at her as best I can with my droopy mouth, and she gives me a conspiratorial wink.

John’s steadfastly avoiding looking at her, but I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t find her as appealing anymore, or because of the stunt she pulled earlier. Either way, I’m glad for the lack of puffed-up posturing from all sides.

Sherlock stalks over to the mirror, stroking one finger along its surface. “I assume the portal is here?”

She stares at him. She’s doing a good job of hiding her shock, but I can tell he’s caught her off-guard.

“It’s obvious. First of all, it’s far more enormous than even someone as vain as you needs to see their entire body. Roughly the size of a standard double door in this building. You’ve got two other mirrors on the closet doors there, plus the one with the better lighting over the vanity. There’s no reason for this mirror to be here, aside from it being a portal that you have exclusive control over.”

Scowling, she stares at John, who just smiles and shrugs. Rolling her eyes, she drops to her knees, putting herself roughly at eye-level with the kids.

“Okay, boys and girls. I’ve got some candies here for you, we’re each going to have one candy and then we’re going to have a little nap!”

The kids look skeptical about the nap bit, but are all more than eager for the candy. Varvara’s smarter than she looks. One by one, she hands them a small sugar ball, and within seconds they’re all curled up, peacefully asleep. I’m debating questioning the ethics of drugging them again, but I know this time it’s for their own good.

Once they’re all laid out on the floor, she taps each one gently on their foreheads, and the quiet, contented murmurs they make and the smiles on their faces seem to assuage John.

Sherlock’s studying them again. “We can each carry two, reasonably. John, Matt, and myself can take two each through the portal, and then John can wait on the other side while we come back. Varvara, will you bring two as well, so we can do it in only two trips?”

She smiles and nods, reaching out and gently tucking one girl’s curls behind her ear as she naps. Sometimes I forget she’s technically the mother of all demons, and she does have a maternal side. We each grab two kids and hop through the portal. I’m the last to step through, and John’s already settled down with the kids. Sherlock is tapping away on his cellphone before he slips back through the gate to grab the rest of the kids.

We get them all through, and we’re standing in the middle of a park in what I assume is London. Varvara nods at the two of them and ducks back without saying anything, but she’s probably got more important things to do.

There’s a bit of an awkward moment while the three of us stand around over the kids.

“I’m assuming you guys won’t tell anyone the details about this?”

John smirks. “You mean I can’t write about it in my blog? No, seriously though, we can be discreet. Don’t worry. And, thanks.” He looks pointedly at Sherlock.

“Yes, thank you. Your assistance was useful.”

“Invaluable, Sherlock.”

“Useful. I would have found my way around eventually.”

I get the impression this is the best I’m going to get, so I accept it.

“You’re welcome. And thank you for the company. So… Uh… Good luck.” I can feel myself rotting even quicker here on Earth, so I decide not to stick around. “It was nice meeting you guys. Take care.”

They nod, and I can hear a normal school bus approaching, so I figure it’s time to make my exit, and I hop back through the portal. I hope those two make it. I’ve grown oddly fond of them.

* * *

It’s been a couple of days since they left, and the flat is painfully quiet. Devona’s due home later today, so I’m tidying up a bit when there’s a ding from the bedroom.

“You’ve got mail!” The strangely inflected fake-cheery voice comes from the computer. It was creepy enough when AOL did it with a neutral woman’s voice, but my computer happens to sound like a Bronx cabbie with a tracheotomy ring, so it’s significantly more jarring. Groaning, I shuffle over to the machine and open my email.

_1 NEW MESSAGE FROM FROM SHERLOCK HOLMES_

Go figure, if anyone out there’d be able to send correspondence from Earth’s internet to our Aethernet, it’d be that guy. I don’t know how he did it, I don’t want to know how he did it, if I did know how he did it I’d have to tell someone, so I don’t think about it too hard.

 

_Richter. Just letting you know we got them home safe. The police force here thanks you indirectly. I suppose I should thank you directly. Perhaps we’ll be in touch again some day._

_-SH_

_ps hi from john!1_

In touch again, huh? Strangely enough, I find myself not entirely averse to the idea. I wonder how Devona would feel about meeting them.


End file.
